Chapter 11

Quite early in the war David and William walked home in silence after seeing a troop-train off from Rye, then suddenly, when they came to Odiam, shook hands.

"It's our chance," said Bill.

"We've waited for it long enough."

"I couldn't have stood much more, and this will be a good excuse."

"The old man 'ull take on no end—wot with his corn-growing plans and that."

"Funny how he never seems to think of anything but Odiam."

"Strikes me as he's mad—got what you call a fixed idea, same as mad people have."

"He's sensible enough—but he's unaccountable hard to live with."

"Yes—he's fair made me hate Odiam. I liked the place well enough when I was a little lad, but he's made[Pg 411] me sick of it. It's all very well living on a farm and working on it, but when you're supposed to give up your whole life to it and think of nothing else, well, it's too much."

"We won't tell him that, though, Davy—we'll make out as it's pure patriotic feeling on our part."

"Yes; I don't want him to think we're set on getting away—but, by gum, Bill! we are."

"If this war hadn't happened we'd have had to have thought of something else."

So they went and broke their news to Reuben. They were careful and considerate—but he was knocked out by the blow.

"Going!—both of you!" he cried.

"We feel we've got to. They want all the young men."

"But you could help your country just as well by staying at h?ame and growing corn."

"You can grow corn without us—we're wanted out there."

"But you're all I've got—one go, and t'other stay."

"No, we must stick together."

"Oh, I know, I know—you've always thought more of each other than of your father or of Odiam."

"Don't say that, dad—we care for you very much, and we're coming back."

"There's no one gone from here as has ever come back."

For the first time they noticed something of the cracked falsetto of old age in his voice, generally so firm and ringing. Their hearts smote them, but the instinct of self-preservation was stronger than pity. They knew now for certain that if they stayed Odiam would devour them, or at best they would escape maimed and only half alive. Either they must go at once—in time, like Richard, or go in a few years—too late, like Caro. Besides, the war called to their young blood; they[Pg 412] thought of guns and bayonets, camp-fires and battlefields, glory and victory. Their youth called them, and even their father's game and militant old age could not silence its bugles and fifes.

The next day they left Odiam for the recruiting station at Rye. Reuben and the farm-hands watched them as they marched off whistling "Good-bye, Dolly, I must leave you," shaking their shoulders in all the delight of their new freedom. They had gone—as Albert had gone, as Robert, as Richard, as Tilly, as Benjamin, as Caro, as Pete had gone. Reuben stood erect and stiff, his eyes following them as they turned out of the drive and disappeared down the Peasmarsh road.

When they were out of sight he walked slowly to the new ground near the crest of Boarzell, which was being prepared for the winter wheat. He made a sign to the man who was guiding the plough, and taking the handles himself, shouted to the team. The plough went forward, the red earth turned, sprinkled, creamed into long furrows, and soothed Reuben's aching fatherhood with its moist fertile smell. It was the faithful earth, which was his enemy and yet his comforter—which was always there, though his children forsook him—the good earth to which he would go at last.